The Artist Occasionally Known As...
What's in a name? (Besides a handful of letters?) I have never been able to answer that one with any appreciable meaning myself, which is probably why I have changed my nom de plume so often. Throughout the many manifestations in this lifetime, I have been known not only as Chaos Fairy, but as Random, Ajsia, HarliQuinn, Wyldecard and "Hey, you!" as well. When something means nothing, what does it matter the name that it carries?
But who is the artist behind these many names? Indeed, is the moniker of "Artist" a fair one? Or am I simply "a poor actor strutting and fretting my hour upon the stage" taking on the role of the artist? In truth, the latter seems more likely...
I must admit, however, it is not a difficult part to play. The only requirements that I have been able to clearly identify are for one to be possessed of a modicum of wit coupled with the irrepressible need to comment on the world at large under the misguided impression that anyone gives a care about what I have to say. In faith, even that quality can be satisfied with a bit of self-delusion or, lacking that, simple arrogance. Alas, as it always follows with me, nothing is ever simple.
I suppose it can be said that who I am is a hotly contested debate among many who know me. Most are content to disbelieve, to file me away with tales of tooth fairies and Santa Claus, which, really, serves my purposes well. I prefer to be thought of as a Figment of an Aberrant Imagination as opposed to a warm and vital creature of flesh in blood. I would rather be the lurker of closets and corners of mind than something that can be pushed, stamped, filed, labeled, categorized, disavowed and shuffled through the bureaucracy that life tends to become. Better to be the ghost in the machine than a cog worn smooth by pressure and time, to be discarded, replaced and forgotten.
Odd, isn't it, that in this slicked-out world of the fast food here and now, in this world of take what you can when you can, in this "Show me the Money" and permanency of plastic society that it is the ghost stories told at the campfire side, that it is the unseen, the incorporeal, the enigmatic and the immaterial that dazzle our imaginations throughout the course of time? Isn't it strange how that which we do not know, that which we cannot label persists and becomes, it its own right, immortal?
That being said, is it not understandable that I wish to remain anonymous?
With regards....
